The Last Sherlock Holmes Story Read Online Free

might to wean him from it. But to no avail. Whatever arguments I advanced, his reply was always the same:
    ‘My dear Watson, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to give it up. Only bring me work! Find me some problem to exercise my intellect, and you may play at darts with my needles for all I care.’
    To this I had no answer. Holmes had been stalemated by his own prodigious genius. He had solved every problem, and thereby created one which appeared truly insoluble.
    But though the fires burned low, they had not gone out, and since Holmes’s fame was now at its zenith his advice was sought on all sides. Hence the telegrams. Every morning after breakfast he so far compromised his indolence as to read through the newspapers, cast an eye over his post, and then fire off cryptic memoranda to various destinations. ‘How many rungs had the ladder?’ a message might run, or ‘If the milk was off, Furneaux is your man.’ These oracular pronouncements were dispatched daily all over our islands, and in some cases also to the Continent. They were received generally with gratitude, occasionally with incredulity, but very rarely in vain. Holmes’s inferences were almost always proved correct, and where they failed it always subsequently transpired that some fact had been distorted or withheld. Not that his vicarious triumphs appeared to afford Holmes the slightest pleasure. It was a ritual he performed each day, as one might any tedious but necessary duty, and then resumed his brown study.
    I was therefore both astonished and delighted when my friend – having read the telegram of which I speak – handed a scribbled reply to the boy, gave out a brief laugh, and began to pace the floor as of old.
    ‘Is it a case, Holmes?’ I enquired hopefully. His last investigation, the Cushing horror, had been concluded more than a month before. †
    ‘In a way,’ said he, handing me the form in passing.
    The telegram was from one of Holmes’s old contacts at Scotland Yard. I read: ‘Have you been following these Whitechapel killings? I might call later if you are free. We have something fresh. G. Lestrade.’
    I looked up in some surprise at Holmes, who chuckled.
    ‘You may not be aware, Watson, that among my other accomplishments I have become something of an expert at interpreting the Scotland Yard dialect. It is an interesting idiom, although its relation to English as we know it is somewhat tenuous. This telegram is a good example. A tiro would never suspect that behind this mask of insouciance there hides a desperate man, a man hounded and harried by the press, by the public, and by his superiors – a man at his wits’ end, begging for help! Translated into our common tongue, Lestrade’s message reads: “Three women brutally murdered this past month in Whitechapel – more killings expected – all suspects released for lack of evidence – utterly baffled – you are our last hope – for God’s sake say you’ll see me!”’
    ‘And did you?’
    ‘Oh certainly. One should never miss the spectacle of the police in loco clientis . Besides, this case is of some considerable interest. You have heard of it, of course?’
    The question was indeed purely rhetorical. There can have been no one in the kingdom that fateful autumn who was unaware of the terrible events unfolding in the East End. People could talk of nothing else.
    ‘I really didn’t imagine you would consider it worth looking into, Holmes,’ I answered. ‘It all seems rather sordid and disgusting. Hardly your style, I would have thought.’
    ‘Sordid enough and disgusting enough, in all conscience, but redeemed by some quite extraordinary features of interest – as I may be able to show you. Wouldyou have the goodness to hand me down the red volume on the topmost shelf? I must confess that Lestrade’s cri de coeur has not come as a complete surprise to me. I have been expecting something of the sort for several weeks now, and to that end I have been